"What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart.
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